


obsolete

by marchpng



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, everything else is background, lams is only hinted at and lafayette is nonbinary, mainly lafayette and alex coping together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 04:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13696449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchpng/pseuds/marchpng
Summary: Lafayette wonders how to stay whole, when everything they've ever loved is gone.





	obsolete

**Author's Note:**

> another venting fic! this time, i talk a lot about death and how to cope with it. also a hint of lams.

It’s been days.

 

Lafayette doesn’t have a driver’s license, and even if they would, they aren’t in any condition to drive anyway. They take a taxi to get here. Any other time, Hercules would’ve done that. Any other time, Hercules would’ve dropped them off. Any other time, Hercules would’ve made sure to get them as soon as their number appears on the screen on his phone. Any other time.

 

Today isn’t any other time. And Hercules is busy having a nervous breakdown in their shared apartment, so they took it upon themselves to take care of this.

 

In their haze, they don’t give the driver enough money at first and hastily apologize, press an amount of dollars into his hand that’s way too much. It doesn’t matter, and his protest is easily ignored. All it takes is for them to mumble a quiet ‘keep it’, and then he’s gone. Or maybe they just turned around and drowned him out. Background noise, that’s all that it is, the outside world. There are the usual sounds of traffic, people around them living their daily life, talking on their phones, laughing and screaming and _being alive,_ but none of it matters to Marie. It’s the city of their dreams, the place they call home, and they couldn’t care less.

 

The building is empty. Or, it isn’t, but to them, it’s never been emptier, never been as quiet as it is now, as they climb the stairs they’ve climbed seemingly a thousand times. There’s the neighbours they know, of course, the doors they remember from their earlier visits. The small sign hanging from one of the doorknob almost seems to mock them. **I’m sweeping this week.** How absurd is it, to read something like that in their situation? The normal procedures of life seem like a nuisance, a bother, something they never should’ve paid attention to. Regret has been a familiar friend, these past few days, and they merely frown at the feeling in their chest, the pressure that barely leaves anymore. It takes a second for them to take a break, stand still and breathe, before they can continue.

 

They have the key, of course. Their group of four is inseparable, it was self-evident, to share the keys for their apartments. It makes this whole ordeal a lot easier. Right now, they’re not sure if they’d even be allowed inside, if there’d be any movement inside of the small space they’re so familiar with. Maybe the ringing of the doorbell would go by completely unnoticed. Maybe the grief on everyone’s shoulders is too heavy to grasp the concept of life outside of their little bubble.

 

Like this, though, like this the key turns in the lock and the door creeks as they open it. Another unnecessary detail, something they wish their brain could ignore, because as soon as they hear it, hear that sound, they think of how John was planning to fix it.

 

It doesn’t matter. Not now.

 

Finding him is easy. There aren’t a lot of hiding spaces here, and they’ve known him long enough to guess what he’s doing, what he’s probably been doing the last few days. He’s hunched over his laptop, in the kitchen, the glaring brightness of the screen the only source of light in the entire room. A couple of blankets are either wrapped around him or have been dropped to the ground, enough evidence for Lafayette to realize that he’s been sleeping here, as well. His hair is a mess. It always is, but he didn’t even bother to put it in a ponytail, didn’t bother to shower, didn’t bother to get up from this chair all this time. He doesn’t bother to look up now, either.

 

John’s denim jacket is draped across the back of his chair.

 

“Alexander,” they say, and they’re surprised at how rough their own voice sounds. Maybe that’s because they haven’t been in here since it happened. Or maybe it’s because they avoided talking as much as possible throughout the last few days, fearing to burst into tears as soon as they’d open their mouth. He doesn’t react, and they take no offense. He probably didn’t hear, too consumed in whatever he’s working on. That’s alright. It’s fine, because this is what matters. He does. Alexander. Getting him out of here, out of the hole he’s digging himself.

 

A hole in the ground, much similar to the one they lowered John into, a little while ago.

 

“Alexander,” they try again, and this time, there’s a sign. His shoulders twitch. It’s too little of a movement to call it flinching, and if Lafayette wouldn’t have searched for it, they would’ve missed it. They don’t, though. No, their tired eyes are directed at him with every slow step they take. Slow, because they don’t know if he’d lash out at them if they don’t announce their presence carefully enough. Slow, because keeping their balance is difficult.

 

They’re in no condition to be here. But someone had to.

 

A hand on his shoulder. Lafayette is too tired to consider each of their options, half relying on their instincts, half thinking about what they’re doing. The open document on the screen of his laptop doesn’t matter. They could look at it, take in the count of pages he’s written in his crazed state of mind, ask what he could possibly be writing right now. But they don’t. They don’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s all useless details, all abundant. Not needed. Not important.

 

He is.

 

Maybe they have his attention at this point. They guess so, judging from the way his head tilted into their direction a little. Did he talk? They’re not sure, can’t waste too much time doubting themselves. They push onward, through the haze in their own head. Ask him to leave, someone says. Don’t forget why you came here. Don’t lose focus.

 

“Please.” They want to cry. The pressure in their chest has shifted, now lingering in their throat. That feeling you have when you choke on tears, sobs, sounds of sadness and mourning. It shows itself in the way their voice almost breaks on that word, a single syllable.

 

“Please. Come ‘ome. Come with me.” And he refuses, of course. Says no, says that he has work to do, says that he can’t afford to take a break. It’s all nonsense, they know that. But does that make it easier? How do you explain that this is no longer home, not without John? How do you explain that staying here, hidden away in darkness, surrounded by the things that belonged to him, isn’t going to help anyone? That jacket isn’t him, they want to say, and they probably do, because Alexander’s glaring at them now, the bags beneath his eyes making the motion appear a lot less intimidating.

 

He must be so tired. They’re all tired. Days spent in a hospital, followed by a funeral attended by people who didn’t really love John, not the way his friends did, it’s exhausting.

 

Living with it is exhausting. But there’s no use in standing still. No use in looking back. And Lafayette realizes that Alexander would probably punch them for a train of thought like that, but they don’t care. He needs them, right now. They need someone, too, but they’re not the priority. He is. He is.

 

They try again. “It’s not ‘im. This kitchen, this apartment, it’s not —— It’s not ‘im. You’re not going to bring ‘im back like this, Alexander, please come 'ome —— “

 

“What do you know? Huh, Marie? You don’t know anything. You didn’t love him like I did, you didn’t know him like I did, **why are you even here?** I’m not _leaving._ I’m not going with you.”

 

And they’re so tired, and angry, the tears finally across their cheek as they grit their teeth, try their hardest to cling to their earlier thoughts. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He didn’t know when he had to leave the funeral early, and he doesn’t know now. He’s lost in grief, Marie, don’t take it personal, don’t take offence, don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

 

“What do —— What do I know?” There wasn’t any fire in his eyes as he finally started talking, and it hurts. Who put it out? Where’s his spark, where’s his light, where’s the life in him? “I know —— _Fuck,_ you’re such a fucking _asshole._ I loved ‘im. I loved John. 'e was my friend, Alex, my family, my everything —— I didn’t love ‘im like you did, but I did, I did —— “

 

Suddenly, it’s all there again, the raw pain of losing him. Alexander might as well have punched them, because that’s how it feels. A fist in their stomach, pressing the air out of their lungs as they’re forced to gasp for it. They want to throw up. They want to scream. They want to cry. They want to break down and hide away and ignore it all, ignore the empty space John left in them as he waved them goodbye without ever preparing any of them for it.  And it’s stupid, to be mad at him now, when he’s clearly dead and buried and can’t hear their accusations anymore, but God, it’s so easy to be. So easy, when Alexander’s crying, and they’re crying, and they still feel the trembling of Hercules’ shoulder as they held him the night before, waited for the wave of sadness to pass.

 

They wonder if it ever will. Pass. If it’ll pass away like he did, that empty feeling, if they’ll be able to fill the hole he left. They doubt it.

 

Somehow, they’re both on the ground, a bundle of arms around Alexander’s fragile body, and he’s shaking, and they’re shaking, and if they listen closely, they’ll hear an apology. Of course. He didn’t mean it, they know. They realize. They kiss his forehead, then, brush the loose strands of hair out of the way. His eyes are empty and for a second, Marie is scared of getting lost in them.

 

The room reeks of the coffee John used to drink every morning. The dried paint on his clothes that would never disappear, despite Marie’s hardest efforts. The nail polish he’d change every other day, because the colours were never colourful enough. His denim jacket, and his hair ties, and his beanies, and his smile, and his laugh, and his voice. John. All of it is John. All of it is a bitter reminder of what they lost, what they didn’t appreciate enough when it was there. They didn’t pay attention. Didn’t focus on what’s important, didn’t realize what they had.

 

Lafayette doesn’t know how Alexander hasn’t suffocated yet. Is it because he’s already used to the self-hatred that’s still startling Marie with each second that passes? Or because John was the only one to stop it, that flow of doubt and hate and the need to wither away?

 

They stay there for some time, on the ground. Both of them too tired to concentrate on the concept of time. Hercules must worry, by now, worry about if things went well, if they managed to persuade Alexander into coming with them. They can’t bring themselves to care.

 

“I loved him,” Alexander whimpers sometime sooner or later, and it hurts so much, to know that he’s lost his happiness just as much as they did, if not worse. But they’re glad that he’s talking. It’s what John would’ve wanted, they’re sure of it. He would’ve wanted them to stick together. He would’ve wanted Lafayette to take care of Alexander. Make sure that he doesn’t get lost on the way, doesn’t destroy himself in trying to forget. And so, they will. For as long as they can, they will.

 

There’s no light in his eyes. Not as they slowly gather themselves to get up, not as they enter the taxi, not as they arrive at home and fall into Hercules’ arms, cry together, fall apart together.

 

They don’t know if it’ll ever return. They can’t spark that fire. Not the way John did.

 

But they can try.


End file.
